


Do You Ever Get Weak?

by anyothergirl415



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-01
Updated: 2010-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:18:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anyothergirl415/pseuds/anyothergirl415
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean came back from Hell Sam expected to have his big brother back and continue on as they always had. He never anticipated this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do You Ever Get Weak?

When his brother died the world around him collapsed and only then did Sam learn that there wasn’t really much to his world at all. The most important thing had always been Dean. With him gone, Sam took steps, inhaled breaths, ate, drank, slept, and every second he died a little more. He cried until his brain hammered against his skull and exhaustion tugged him into nightmares: Dean screamed as invisible dogs tore him apart and dragged him to hell. When Sam woke his eyelids felt glued together and no matter how hot he made the water in the shower, he still ached from the chill.

That was the thing about life though. When you lived, everything continued around you. Sometimes Sam wanted to walk into the middle of a crowded mall, let his head fall back and scream, _how can you keep going like the world hasn’t suffered such a great loss?_ No one knew. No one understood. How Sam continued to put one foot in front of the other was a miracle. It wasn’t like when the Trickster had taken Dean away, because Sam had a goal then, he _knew_ Dean wasn’t dead. This time, Sam had buried his brother’s body in the middle of nowhere. There was no demi-god waiting at the end of a long and winding path to take this all back.

There was Ruby though.

She was less of a god and more of a demon and she twisted and pulled and worked her way under his skin. But never into his heart because that place was shut down, off limits, untouchable. Sam had to figure out how to keep going. Sam came to the realization that he wasn’t as grown up as he thought he was and it was time to start. Without Dean, Sam molded and shaped and discovered things about who he was. It wasn’t necessarily good but it definitely wasn’t all bad and eventually he knew he’d have to stop feeling guilty every time he smiled or laughed. As much as he often thought the world should simply shut down, it wouldn’t, and Sam had no other choice.

Then, suddenly, Dean was back. Just like that. Showing up with Bobby one random night, rolling his eyes at the splash of holy water in his face, wrapping his arms tight enough around Sam to make it hard to breathe. If Sam was a little confused it was only because Dean was _dead_. Clearly he wasn’t since he stood before them and just when Sam had finally been starting to reach that point where he thought he might actually be able to _move on_.

For the first few days Sam kept having these moments were Dean’s presence would shock him. Like stepping out of the bathroom only to find his brother there, waiting for his turn and Sam would jump slightly; blink rapidly, before forcing a laugh and moving out of the way. Or as they headed out of the motel to the car and both walked to the driver’s side. Sam’s eyes widened and he fumbled with the keys before pressing them into Dean’s open palm and walking slowly around to the passenger door. Or when they went to the next motel and Sam accidentally got a room with only one bed, not realizing his mistake until he pushed the door open and Dean brushed against his side with a laugh, called him a bitch and sent him back to the office to fix his mistake.

The first time Sam realized something might be a little wrong with his brother was a week after his return. Sam had gone out to get them lunch and Dean was pouring over books, attempting to figure out what would have enough power to bring him back. Sam didn’t mention that he’d spoken to Ruby during his outing, it just seemed like one of those things better kept to himself, and it wasn’t like the demon had anything more to add than what they already knew. Whatever it was that had pulled Dean from hell had to be really fucking powerful.

Big duh there.

“Dean?” Sam had called the moment he pushed the motel door open, balancing a couple food cartons in one hand and pulling his keys free with the other. His brother was still sitting at the table where Sam had left him but his eyes were glazed, far away, and Sam frowned in concern. “Dean?” He asked again, softer, letting the door close behind him and flinched as it slammed hard enough to shake the walls.

The sound shook Dean from whatever was wracking his brain and his eyes shot to Sam, penetrating him with water illuminated emerald green. Unshed tears. Sam was locked into place, heart twisting unpleasantly and the moment suddenly felt far too _heavy_ , as if the air around them was waiting for someone to break.

“Food? Good I’m starving.”

Sam shouldn’t have been surprised that Dean shrugged it all off like Sam hadn’t just caught him in the act… almost crying. “Uh… yeah. Got you a burger, like you wanted,” he mumbled and overcompensated for his surprise with too long steps forward that made him feel a little too Sasquatch-ish for his taste. Fitting into a nickname his brother hadn’t called him for years.

Dean moaned in appreciation of the smell of grease and meat as he took the container offered to him and popped the lid open.

“So, you find anything?” Sam asked too casually as he dropped into the vacant chair and opened his own container – grilled chicken breast on whole wheat, lettuce, tomato, onion, pickle, not at all the one way ticket to a future suffering from coronary heart disease. Like the meal his brother was currently devouring as if he hadn’t eaten a stack of pancakes and six strips of bacon just shy of four hours ago.

“Nothing we didn’t already know,” Dean shrugged, talking through the half-masticated cow rolling around his tongue.

Sam grimaced and picked at the lettuce poking out from his sandwich, “Well… we’ll get there. Dean? What were you thinking about when I got here?” So he wasn’t really prepared to let this go. There was a whole list of things Sam had let go too easily and it seemed like the right time for that to change.

“Whether a person can be changed for good and never stand a chance at being the same,” Dean said simply, as if _that_ made all the sense in the world.

“Changed?” Sam lifted his gaze and considered his brother’s profile. A shrug was the only answer offered and twenty six years of his hunter lifestyle told him things were different. Something was wrong. They were now on a new path possibly bigger than Sam could begin to grasp.

-=-=-=-

It was Bobby who came through in the end, finding out the little piece of information that seemed _so_ important. Sam was agitated with the situation even before Bobby’s psychic friend – Pamela – got her eyes burned out. After, when the smell of burning flesh penetrated the room, Sam’s agitation shifted to downright terror and he _begged_ his brother not to pursue this.

“Think of it as a blessing and move on,” he urged and Dean shot him a look hard enough to bring smaller, more cowardly men to their knees. Sam had been on the receiving end of those looks too many times to feel the threat laced with it.

Dean pursued it - _of course_ \- and returned to the motel shaking one night, refusing to discuss what he had seen. Sam had to call Bobby, not in the least bit comforted by the shake of the man’s voice. Something that could scare Bobby Singer was _not_ something wanted to be associated with.

But it turned out to be an angel. An honest to God – pun intended – real life _angel_.

Dean wasn’t exactly jumping on board with the whole idea and it irritated Sam that he remained so stubborn on the issue. Sam countered protests with a simple, “you spent four months in Hell Dean, what makes you think there’s not an opposite place?”

The second time Sam began to think there was something not quite right with his brother was when he answered Sam’s point in a deadly calm monotone, “I can’t believe in a Heaven knowing one day I’ll go back to Hell and _know_ that there’s somewhere better that I’m not good enough for.”

Sam hadn’t thought along those lines, the inevitable death they would each face – the one where neither of them came back – and the fate that awaited them. “You don’t think spending our lives devoted to killing evil warrants us a place in line at the pearly gates?” He tried to add a note of teasing banter into the question, intent on seeing some emotion on Dean’s face outside the cold, shut down one he was currently mastering.

“No, I don’t,” Dean said simply. Too simply. Like he used to say the lines were clearly black and white, good and evil, no room for negotiation.

Sam took a chance, rolled the proverbial dice, and asked, “do you remember? What it was like?” _God_ he hoped Dean didn’t remember. Sam would have done everything in his power to take Dean’s place. He _tried_ but some deals couldn’t be broken.

The moment emerald eyes met his Sam could feel the temperature in the room drop. He couldn’t see his breath but had they been anywhere else he would have been preparing himself for a fight. Now he was only shocked, wide eyed and possibly a little terrified because Dean’s gaze seemed to be piercing his very soul. “It’s not something I can talk about,” Dean informed in a steely whisper and the moment was broken as he turned away.

Sam was left panting, heart hammering hard in his chest, stumbling on weak legs to drop onto the edge of the mattress. “Holy fuck Dean,” he gasped, curl uncurling his fingers to work out the tension.

Dean’s answering laugh chilled him all over again and Sam was not so much _thinking_ as _knowing_ there was something wrong with Dean. To what extent, he was almost scared to find out.

-=-=-=-

With the reappearance of Castiel came Dean’s begrudging acceptance that Angel’s were in fact real. This did very little to improve his opinion on the subject however. Most nights Sam woke to Dean’s screams. It was almost as unnerving as the too intense gazes his brother shot him at random times across the table or car. Sam would lay and listen and torment himself over how or if to help. By the time he worked up the courage Dean would normally have woken himself and fumbled out of bed.

Then Sam would spend the next few hours trying not to worry or stare at the motel door. Dean always left after the dreams and Sam would listen but the Impala would never roar to life in the parking lot. After the third time it happed he’d crept over to the curtains to peer out, only to find Dean sitting on the cold cement, staring out into nothing.

Truthfully, Sam didn’t know how to handle his brother like this. He was tired and confused and trying to figure out what role he was meant to play now in their twisted dynamic. It was all beginning to weigh on Sam and, two weeks into the less than three hours of sleep a night thing, he’d had enough.

The first cry had barely left Dean’s lips before Sam was up and out of bed, padding silently to Dean’s mattress and staring down. Dean twitched and rolled and fucking _whimpered_ and Sam’s heart clenched painfully tight. Dean was clearly _hurting_ and god Sam wanted so badly to fix him.

“Dean?” He asked tentatively, hand hovering in the few feet of air separating them.

A sharp cry left Dean’s body in time with a jolt, mattress creaking as he twisted beneath the blanket, pulling it down low on his waist. Sam’s hesitation slipped away along with the pull over the covers and the bed dipped beneath him as he slid in beside his brother. Dean’s body jerked as Sam moved forward and the man stopped, wondering if he was putting himself into the line of fire just by being there.

“Dean?” Sam was quiet and nervous, edging closer.

His brother’s body lurched up, sitting rim rod straight, eyes snapping open and Sam skid back on habit, staring in shock at him. “All those people,” Dean gasped, fingers curling into his fists.

Wetting his lips nervously Sam reached out to touch his brother’s shoulder, “Dean?”

Dean’s head whipped around sling shot fast to him, eyes dark and stormy. “I killed them. Their blood on my hands. My hands. I did it. Me.” The words were practically growled, bitten out and Dean’s fingers opened up to Sam, displaying blood trickling along his palms from crescent moon cuts into his flesh.

There wasn’t really a word to describe the level of shock settling on Sam’s shoulders. For a moment he was simply frozen, heart stuttering out shaky beats until the sharp twang of blood hit his nostrils and his eyes dropped to the exposed flesh. “Jesus,” he whispered in that vague state of surprise and he turned, snatching a few tissues from the box on the nightstand before turning back to Dean. “What are you talking about Dean? You’ve never killed anyone… just… supernatural crap.”

The laugh that fell from Dean’s lips chilled him to his very core and Sam had to force his fingers to continue gentle motions, dabbing up the blood with curled tissue. “You’re right Sammy,” Dean hissed and Sam had to look up to ensure his brother’s eyes were still green and not blanketed in black. They sparkled in the moonlight and narrowed with a dark amusement Sam had never seen. “Technically, they were already dead. Weird, how the damned can still bleed.”

Sam’s hand was frozen in spot, fingers curled loosely along the back of Dean’s hand, the other around tissue, and his breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t often that he was scared of his brother, in fact Sam couldn’t think of a specific time it had happened before, but the nagging in his gut suggested he was hurtling directly at that emotion head first. “What… Dean…” he whispered, blinking a few times in confusion.

Everything flashed in a moment with the world tilting and Sam’s vertical was suddenly horizontal, cottage cheese ceiling a brief flash across his vision before it was shielded by the stone cold lines of his brother’s face. “Scared Sammy?” Dean growled, tone eerily similar to mocking.

Fingers curled around his neck and _yeah_ Sam was scared. Really _fucking_ scared because Dean was one of the few people in the world that Sam wasn’t sure he could overpower. Especially now, all upper body strength, like somehow his person hadn’t been corpse like for four months and his soul had come back from an Arnold Schwarzenegger-esque Hell. “Dean…” Sam felt a little like a broken record, stuck on the shocked repeated whisper of his brother’s name.

“I could kill you now. If I wanted,” Dean hissed and the fingers twitched along Sam’s throat, tightened a fraction of an inch, just enough to make it hard for Sam to swallow. “I wouldn’t spill your blood though. No. I’d just slowly cut off your ability to breathe. Then I’d ride out the thrashing of your body as you died.”

Dean’s breath was stale and harsh penetrating Sam’s senses, two layers of cotton the only barrier between hips pressed together, slowly undulating as if of their own accord, bare chest almost grazing, fingers once more tightening. A low, guttural noise bubbled in the back of Sam’s throat and he wheezed in a vague whisper of oxygen, hands snapping out to shove at Dean’s shoulders. He didn’t move. _Oh shit._ Sam was sure any moment his life would begin to flash before his eyes and then that would be it.

“You know it’ll take about five minutes, for you to die,” Dean stated casually, like he would have said _I’d like a burger for lunch_ or _that guy may possibly be possessed_. “And you know what else Sam?” Dean’s lips brushed along his in a brief not-quite-there kiss that should have shocked Sam but he was _dying_ and nothing could top that surprise. “I’m gonna sit here, roll my body against yours as I kill you, and I’m gonna _like_ it, get off on it. Does that make me one sick fuck or what?”

Another round of cold laughter and Sam’s vision was fading from usually crystal clear to a haze of black. He clawed desperately against Dean’s skin, body snapping and jerking, flesh tearing up under his finger nails.

And then, the hands were suddenly gone and Sam was sucking in the most delicious lungful of oxygen he’d ever tasted. A dizzying wave of pleasure, relief, anger, pain coursed through him and Sam gasped around more air, hands sliding along his neck in a reassurance that the worst was over.

Dean had skittered off the mattress like a startled animal. As the world stabilized around him Sam registered the vague whimpers he only ever heard during Dean’s nightmares. Pushing his hands down into the cool sheets Sam sat and peered around the room in a slow sweep. Dean was crouched in the corner, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around legs, rocking in a gently back and forth motion.

Sam had never seen his brother look so feeble and weak. A complete and total stark contrast to the man who’s been over him just seconds before, draining his life away. Truthfully, the shock was beginning to numb Sam. How much could a man take before he simply lost his ability to process _anything_?

In the risk of his life – literally it seemed – Sam slid off the bed and slowly stepped forward. “Hey…” he tried for the most gentle, soothing tones, reverting to seeing Dean as a wounded animal. The complete lack of anger he felt toward his brother’s actions would have been surprising if Sam had room left in him to be surprised any longer. He didn’t. “Dean, it’s okay, c’mere…”

As Sam’s hand extended out Dean flinched out but Sam was too distracted by the blood smeared on his palm to notice. Curling his fingers up, Sam stared down at the flesh bunched beneath his fingernails and bile churned unpleasantly in the back of his throat. Gaze snapping up, Sam could just barely see the trails of blood down Dean’s chest.

Oddly enough, this was the first moment Sam felt he might be a little in over his head. Still he pressed forward, dropping to his knees to appear less intimidating, rough carpet scraping along his knees as he crawled forward. “Dean… please… let me help you.”

Less than two heartbeats later Dean was pressing into his body, head burying into his neck, shoulders shaking. It didn’t occur to Sam that his brother was crying until he felt the hot burn of tears against his chest. “S-sam…” Dean gasped, hands slapping against his chest. “I d-didn’t mean it… d-didn’t mean to hurt y-you…” he choked on the words and a fist curled against Sam’s heart and squeezed.

“M’fine Dean,” Sam insisted and wrapped his arms around his brother, shifting to accommodate Dean’s body against his own. There was probably less than half a dozen times in Sam’s life that he needed to comfort his brother and it could have been awkward. After all, they were both in boxers and Sam’s throat was sore from Dean’s tight grip, Dean’s chest was bleeding from Sam’s rough drag of nails. But it wasn’t awkward because Sam would have jumped off the fucking Empire State Building if it helped Dean somehow so holding him was relatively nothing.

Despite the fact that his brother had almost just killed him and may have also mentioned something about getting off on the idea. That was a little beyond kinky, even for Dean’s usual tastes. Sam was wisely deciding to keep quiet on the subject and instead he held his brother tightly, stroking a hand down his back, making the occasional soft cooing noise that he supposed would calm the most terrified creature.

Eventually Dean’s pained and heart wrenching half sobs ebbed off to the occasional hiccupped inhale and his weight pressed harder into Sam. When Sam was positive Dean had passed out, he shifted and turned, sliding an arm under Dean’s legs and across his shoulder. It took the last little shreds of his energy to pick Dean up off the carpet and carry him over to the bed, gently depositing him beneath a pale pink quilt.

 _Go back to bed Sam._ His inner sanity suggested and Sam moved around the bed to the free side, curling his fingers around the blanket. _Your **own** bed Sam._ The voice piped up.

On the bed Dean whimpered once more and flopped over, pulling in on himself, presumably falling into yet another nightmare to start the horrible process all over again. Sam gave that voice in his head a firm _fuck off_ , tugging at the blanket and sliding onto the mattress.

This time he didn’t hesitate, simply slid across the bed and scooped Dean up, dragging him into his body and holding him close. Dean’s whimpers died off instantly, arm hooking around Sam’s waist, nose burying into his neck. Sam’s mind was protesting to the heat sparking up in him in response to the touches far more than his body, which seemed quite content to focus in on the heat and use it to stir his cock with interest.

With a quiet sigh Sam resolved that getting sleep was going to be just as difficult in this bed as in his own. No matter the difference in the reasons.

-=-=-=-

Sam woke to the feel of a gentle stroking along his neck and his heart slammed hard against his ribcage, eyes snapping open to peer up into emerald. He had no idea when he’d finally fallen asleep but he didn’t feel too ridiculously exhausted so that was a plus. However, waking to the unreadable expression on Dean’s face and the touch of fingers along his likely bruised flesh wasn’t necessarily settling. Especially since the previous night’s events wasted no time in slamming to the forefront of his memory.

And they were both still just in boxers. Which wouldn’t have been too bad if Sam knew how to control his morning erection. Even with his brother touching the place he’d almost strangled him the night before, Sam was hard as a rock. It was going to make for an awkward conversation.

“I almost killed you,” Dean whispered, in awe, like he’d just witnessed the fucking second coming. Sam, who was still mostly suffering from shock regarding the previous night, barely managed a nod and slight eyebrow raise. Dean continued, “like… I would have killed you. I was going to. I could _feel_ your life seeping away through my fingers.”

“Why didn’t you?” Sam asked in a whisper, refusing to acknowledge the fact that any _sane_ person wouldn’t be laying half naked in bed with a hard on, with their brother, who had tried to kill them less than six hours ago. Sam was fairly certain the word _sane_ hadn’t applied to any Winchester for a while now.

Dean snorted and spun on the mattress, dropping his legs over the edge and stretching his back in a bend, arms extended up to the ceiling, fingers opening and closing with a slow curl. “You’re my brother Sam. I could never kill you.”

“I was there last night,” Sam stated the obvious and turned on his side away from Dean’s body because, well, Arnold Schwarzenegger-esque Hell apparently. And his brother shouldn’t be _adding_ to the heat in Sam’s crotch. “I saw it in your eyes Dean. You would have done it if you hadn’t gone all twitchy mouse.”

“Twitchy mouse?” Dean half turned, Sam could see it just in his peripheral vision, and smirked. “That like some kind of disease?”

The mattress shifted as he stood and Sam knew the conversation was drawing to a close though they’d gotten nowhere. Very rarely did they actually make headway when it came to _sharing_ and _emo bull shit_ \- as Dean so lovingly referred to it. “Dude? We’re not even gonna talk about this? Seriously?” Sam pushed up as well, not wanting to give Dean any more of the upper hand than he already had.

It wasn’t until he was halfway in the bathroom doorway, hovering with his hand on the wooden frame that he stopped and looked back at Sam. “We already did.” Then the door closed like a wall slamming down between them.

For some reason Sam was hurt, stunned, and still painfully hard, sitting in his brother’s bed, and staring at the door for answers he’ll never get. By this point, it should just fucking go figure.

-=-=-=-

Halfway through a bite of chicken salad something wet and gooey slapped into the side of his cheek and Sam looked up from the newspaper he’d been pursuing, mouth slightly parted around lettuce and tomato. Dean was attempting some feigned innocence but Sam could see through that a mile away. Plus Dean hadn’t been innocent since… he learned how to crawl.

Setting his sandwich down, Sam lifted a hand to touch the substance, revealing a large helping of grape jelly smearing along his cheek, catching in his sideburns. Sam could already feel the sticky substance drying into his pores. “Dean? What the fuck?” The action was so _juvenile_ even for Dean’s standards, which was really saying something.

Eyebrows rose until Sam could see them above the sunglasses Dean had refused to take off when they’d entered the diner. “You’ve got a little something,” Dean crooked a finger and brushed against his own, jelly free face, “right about there.” To top it off he offered Sam a napkin and a smile that wasn’t exactly friendly.

There was _jelly_ on his _face_ so Sam took the napkin with a scowl, dipping it into his water and wiping away at the stick goo. “You’re an ass,” he pointed out, annoyance only growing when Dean chuckled and reclaimed his burger. Despite his desire not to, Sam lost himself in thought over what he might have done to spark this weird circumstance. Considering they hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words to each other since Dean emerged from the bathroom that morning, Sam’s options were limited.

Two more bites, chews, swallows of chicken salad on whole wheat toast before scalding hot liquid splashed across the front of his shirt and settled along the front of his jeans. Sam hissed and jumped back from the table, eyes bulging as he stared at Dean who was casually placing his coffee cup back down onto the table. “Something the matter Sam?” He asked like nothing had just happened.

“That’s it,” Sam huffed and dug into his pocket for his wallet, pulling out a couple bills and throwing them onto the table. Clearly Dean didn’t register the action since he resumed eating, popping the rest of his burger into his mouth and munching happily. “Get up. Get your ass, outside, before I pummel you right here.”

“See me quiver, feel my fear,” Dean’s voice was monotone, and he snagged a pinch of fries, tossing them into his mouth, clearly with no intention to move.

Sam, who really had _enough_ , dipped forward and curled his fingers around Dean’s collar, tugging the leather hard and dragging him up out of the chair. There was a surprising lack of protest from his brother, who fumbled along after and fucking _waved_ at the waitress who was staring slack jawed at the pair as Sam pushed open the glass door and heaved the man outside. Sam was breathing heavily through his nose, clothes stained with cooling coffee, face smeared with grape jelly, mind reeling.

“Jesus Sammy, watch the leather,” Dean grunted as he pushed back from his brother and smoothed his hand up along his collar tenderly.

“What the fuck is your issue Dean?” Sam snapped, spinning on his brother and clenching his fingers in tight fists.

Dean rolled his shoulders in a shrug and dug into his jacket pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, sliding one long white stick between his lips and lighting up as if he’d done it a million times.

Sam stared, wondering vaguely if his eyes could literally pop out of his skull because this… this was unexpected. “Fucking Christ Dean,” Sam spat and stepped forward easily, grabbing the cigarette and throwing it down into the parking lot, catching it under the toe of his boot and twisting. “Look, I know you’ve got this damaged, could give a fuck attitude but this shit has got to _stop_.”

The roll of his eyes, though hidden behind sunglasses, was practically tangible and Dean opened the pack open once more, tipping out another cigarette and bringing it to his lips. “Save me the lecture Sam, you’re not my Mommy despite what you think.”

There was always a breaking point with them, a limit, and they had this habit of pushing and prodding and testing to find the line until one inevitably crossed it and fucked everything up for good. That would be this moment. Sam’s anger flared and he darted forward once more to snatch the cigarette from Dean, toeing it out, grabbing the pack before Dean could go for another. Sam pulled the remaining sticks out and tore them in half, curling them into his fist. “You’re fucking disturbed Dean, I get that, if you would just-“

“You get that?” Dean hissed and pressed forward into Sam’s space, shoulders tensing. “You fucking _get that_ Sam?” He growled and lifted both hands to shove roughly into his brother’s chest. “You don’t fucking get anything and you never fucking will!”

Sam stumbled back a few steps and his hands opened, letting dry tobacco blow from his skin down along pitch black asphalt. “If you’d just tell me then maybe I would. Maybe I could help you.”

“No one can help me,” Dean spat, literally, beads of salvia trailing in an arc down to the ground. “Not an angel, or Bobby and especially not _you_.”

If Sam didn’t know his brother so well he probably wouldn’t have recognized the way his shoulders began to shake, the way his face paled, the way he almost sank down into nothing without shifting his stance at all. It hit Sam like a punch in the gut, the cold hard realization that whatever was wrong with Dean was beyond this. Beyond them. Beyond life at all. It was something existential, a simmering, bubbling bound-to-explode-soon tidal wave of holy fuck not good. “I can help you,” Sam whispered and prayed his emotions weren’t as blatantly obvious in his tone as he thought they might be.

Dean lurched across the parking lot once more and Sam caught a blur of skin before a fist connected into his eye and he reeled to the side. “There you go Sammy, that what you want? Now you can officially call me fucked up but at least you fucking _tried_. Write me off for a lost cause, see if I give a god damn flying _fuck_.”

Blood trickled out Sam’s nose, sparking a coppery twinge along his lips, seeping in across his tongue, and he should have been mad, fucking pissed even, but his heart only clenched with sadness. “Hit me all you want Dean, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well aren’t you just a fucking _saint_ ,” Dean snorted and rolled his shoulder away from Sam. “Gotta buy your ticket to your precious little Heaven Sam? Think rescuing your big brother is gonna make it all better?”

“What is it Dean? What happened to make you like this?” Sam wiped at the blood beneath his nose with his sleeve, stepping toward Dean cautiously.

“What… happened?” Dean turned back to Sam, staring at him in shock. In two quick strides he was back in front of Sam, dragging him by the jacket collar and shoving him roughly back against the Impala. “You fuckin’ stupid Sam? Did you miss the memo that I spent four months in Hell? _Hell_ Sam.” He punctuated every other word by lifting Sam up and slamming him hard repeatedly down into the car. “Every single fucking day they tortured me, they gave me an out and I said no until I _didn’t_. Then I did it. I tortured. All those people Sam. I cut them, bled them, tore their flesh from their skin and I didn’t even _care_ because it was better than the alternative.” Dean’s sunglasses had slid low, falling off the bridge of his nose, and his fingers were clenching tight enough in Sam’s collar, the material burned into his neck.

“Dean,” Sam whispered, watching the flare of heat along his brother’s cheeks, the harsh pant of his chest, the way his eyes bled as if just speaking of that time had transported him back to that place and he had no choice but to watch.

“Oh god Sam,” Dean choked on the words and the protective barrier in Dean’s vision fell so quickly Sam was unprepared for the harsh turmoil of emotions reflected through his gaze.

This was his opening Sam saw and clawed forward before it could close. “I’ve got you Dean, c’mon,” he pressed forward and hooked his arm around his brother, leading him swiftly around the front of the car to the passenger side. Blood still seeped from his nose in a trickling trail, his neck felt raw and abused, his head was distantly fuzzy from the continuous slams back into the car but a harsh sob was shaking Dean’s shoulders and all those other things fell by the wayside.

It was impossible to say how they got back to the motel beyond Sam slipping behind the driver’s wheel and jamming the key in the ignition. There had been the shocked flash of faces from people in the diner who had clearly witnessed the fight but were wise enough to remain indoors for the duration. Sam was also fairly certain he’d run at least two red lights and Dean was leaning against the window, the sobbing had stopped but the silence was almost worse. Sam was terrified his golden opportunity was slipping away, falling out of reach and Dean would return to this fucked up version of himself until the next time his control slipped.

The moment the car was stopped Dean was out the passenger side and bee lining for the door, kicking it angrily when a search of his pockets brought up no key. Clearly the anger hadn’t passed. “Sam, open the god damn fucking door.”

“Oh yeah, cause _that_ really makes me excited to get in a room with you,” Sam huffed, slamming his car door shut and crossing slowly to his brother. “You gonna try and kill me again if we go in there?” He asked quietly, pulling the room key from his pocket and lifting a hand to brush fingers along his bruised neck.

“Depends on how kinky you are I guess,” Dean muttered and shot Sam a look that didn’t hold near enough of a _teasing_ quality to make the statement funny. Like Dean was serious.

By this point, Sam thought he very well could be.

“You’re still bleeding,” Dean pointed out as Sam pushed the door open and their shoulders brushed with a step forward. “Think I broke it?”

“No,” shaking his head briefly Sam headed for the bathroom, grabbing a cloth and wetting it beneath the sink. It seemed the moment had passed; it was too late to try and fix Dean. And then, something loud crashed and shattered against the wall. Sam was out of the bathroom in a flash, staring at the spot Dean stood, panting heavily, face flushed in anger. A brief glance to the side revealed what was left of the lamp, and the TV remote that had clearly been the object of its demise. “Nothing good on?” Sam asked quietly, taking one small step forward with caution.

“You’re just a fuckin’ riot huh?” Dean snapped and darted forward fast enough to give Sam only one seconds warning before their bodies collided into wall. “Did you honestly think you could _fix_ me Sam? You think it’s that fucking easy?”

Sam could feel the heat of his brother along every inch of his body and even the venom of Dean’s words couldn’t stifle the sudden swell of desire through him. _Shit_ when did this become standard default mode for Dean’s body anywhere near his? “I don’t care what you do to me Dean, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Always the martyr,” Dean huffed, eyes rolling hard in time with the surprising twist of his hips against his brother’s. “Mm, looks like I wasn’t too far off base. Me throwing you around get you all hot and bothered Sammy? Want me to bend you over the table and fuck you hard?”

“Jesus Christ,” Sam’s voice sounded entirely too panty and throaty for his own tastes and Dean’s answering leer said he already knew how right he was.

“That’s fucking sick Sam,” Dean whispered, chest flushing against Sam’s, head tilting up, lips ghosting touches centimeters apart. “You’re fucking sick.”

“Look who’s talking,” he answered in a panted huff, closing the distance between them in one quick slide.

It was one of those kisses Sam had seen in movies, the kind were two people’s mouths opened automatically and their tongues met without awkward hesitation and disjointed movements. Dean kissed like he did everything else, dirty, raw, hard, fast. Sam tasted blood - whether from his nose or the kiss he wasn’t sure – and leftover cheeseburger and Dean which didn’t really have a name so much as an essence. Something other worldly connecting them in a way they’d always been able to reach if they’d only taken the step.

They were fumbling clothing, tearing shirts, stepping on toes and struggling for control. Sam’s back against the wall, then the table against his hip, then the bed against his calves and just like that he was naked and sprawled out on the mattress. Dean reeked of sex like his body knew exactly what was coming and pumped lust filled pheromones into the air. Which could explain Dean’s lengthy list of conquests and how easily he got those girls to comply. That and one fucking look at the guy who earned the right to walk around like some god damn Greek God.

“Dean we-“ The words began in his throat but Dean was over him in a flash and they were gone. Their bodies rocked and slid, cocks brushing and rubbing, Sam’s heart stuttering into triple speed overtime.

Lips. Lips everywhere along his skin, tracing his muscles, teeth biting into his flesh, more than Sam could ever even _dream_. Dean’s mouth, wet and blood-hot over the hard line of Sam’s flesh and he barely had time to completely register what was happening when the press along his entrance came. Sam’s instinct was to jerk back, crawl away, get the fuck out of harm’s way because _Jesus_ he couldn’t seriously be considering letting Dean stick his cock up his ass.

There really weren’t even words for that level of wrong. Except maybe hell fire and damnation. He certainly didn’t imagine people who let their brother fuck them got ushered to the front of the line for the pearly gates by any means.

“Sam? Shut up,” Dean breathed the words along Sam’s swollen flesh and smirked when it twitched in response.

“You… can read my mind?” Sam whispered in awe, lifting a head to stare bleary eyed at his brother, legs spread wide, Dean’s body fitting so easily between them.

Dean laughed roughly and slid a finger into his mouth, sucking on the flesh and releasing it with a pop. “No dumbass you were talking out loud. Now shut. Up.” And with the words came the sudden burn pressure of Dean’s finger sliding all the way up in him with one quick shove.

The thing about watching gay porn, you never really realize what it feels like when someone’s finger is literally _up your ass_. Sam had seen gay porn – more than once – and he’d always been turned on but two fingers shoved roughly up into him and it was uncomfortable and weirdly full in a way he couldn’t determine was pleasant or not. But Dean kept sucking on him, keeping him hard, and gradually that burn dimmed down to nothing until Sam finally felt compelled to shift his hips and experiment with the intrusion.

Three fingers and Sam was writhing on the bad like a needy virgin, begging and pleading for his brother to jus t _fuck him already_. These rough touches, the occasional nip of pain, were a much better alternative to the dynamic between them the last twelve hours.

“I’m gonna fuck you,” Dean informed him with a growl, bending Sam’s body up in a way he could safely say he’d never curled before. Feeling Dean in him was much more than fingers, smooth edges, thicker and longer, deeper than anything should be and Sam had to suck in deep lungfuls of air to keep from passing out on the spot.

It was harder, faster, rougher than anything Sam had ever experienced. Each time Dean thrust in Sam thought he could get no deeper than something sparked along his spine and no amount of sucked in air could keep his vision from blurring. They rocked and glided and crashed together and Sam could tell the very moment things changed. Dean’s eyes were wide and bright, glassy with lust, that underlying layer of mockery that had been painting his features seemed to fade away.

Everything took on a different level of intensity and Sam, who would never admit it out loud because Dean would tease him for _life_ , felt less like they were fucking and more like their very souls were twisting and threading together. He lost all concept of time, falling into every sensation and pleasant burn until Dean’s hand curled around his weeping cock and stroked hard. Half a dozen hard tugs and Sam lost control, meeting Dean’s thrusts eagerly, greedily, clenching around him to pull him over the edge along with him.

They lay in a collapsed pile, sharing the same air through kisses that were surprisingly tender and soft. Inevitably their bodies parted and Sam sighed as the weight from Dean shifted to the mattress beside him. With each passing moment Sam could feel the reality of what they’d just done creep in on him. It definitely wasn’t normal, wasn’t right, and maybe it wasn’t just Dean who was fucked up.

“Sam?” Dean whispered and draped his forearm over his eyes, other arm curled over his stomach.

“Hmm?” Sam’s head falls to the side, eyes watching the steady rise and fall of his brother’s chest.

“I’m really not okay,” the man whispered and Sam’s heart clenched.

There was always these moments for them, a series of them whether unfortunate or not. Sam’s inclined to believe they’ve constantly been heading down the path to _something_ and there’s the distinct possibility it could be this. “I know Dean,” he nodded and rolled on his side to lay his arm over Dean’s, lacing their fingers together. “But I’ve got you. No matter what.”

Wherever it leads, this path that they’re on, Sam hasn’t the faintest idea. But he knows it started before Dean died and he knows it’ll continue now that he’s alive. And if they’re both a little weak sometimes, it’s just bound to happen. That’s why they have each other after all.  



End file.
